


Consolation

by ladymelodrama



Category: Far from the Madding Crowd (2015)
Genre: Aftermath of the Christmas Party, Extended Scene, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Melancholy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:53:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25034245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladymelodrama/pseuds/ladymelodrama
Summary: An extended/alternate version of the scene where Bathsheba and Gabriel discover the depths of Boldwood's madness.
Relationships: Bathsheba Everdene/Gabriel Oak
Comments: 8
Kudos: 16





	Consolation

**Author's Note:**

> Of all the stories in all the world, Far From the Madding Crowd might be my favorite <3 
> 
> I've never written for Gabriel/Bathsheba before because their story is _perfect_. No fixing necessary. However, on my latest rewatch, this idea breezed into my head and hasn't let me go. I decided to set this scene the morning after the Christmas party, even though I would guess it's meant to be a few days later. Dramatic license :)

“If it’s any consolation, his life will be spared…,” Gabriel tells me this, softly, gently, as my fingertips brush past fringed silver and a cold, smooth string of white pearls. 

Mr. Boldwood arranged the jewelry for this trousseau so carefully, filling up every drawer with precious metals and sparkling baubles, all laid out on velvet-lined mahogany. Such pretty little things, expensive treasures collected with so much hope. He knew I’d like them, and thought, in liking his gifts, perhaps I’d grow to like him more.

_You never promised that first time._

The eager febricity in his voice when he encouraged Gabriel and I to dance, the hollowness in his eyes as the rifle smoke cleared, misting away in crisp, winter air.

The memories of the night before remain sharp, like cut glass. The silver, gold and white trinkets suddenly blur beneath my vision, as I feel hot tears begin to flood my eyes once more, so familiarly, so endlessly.

_I seem to cry a great deal these days…_

Stubbornly, I hold the tears back this time, and my fingers slowly come away from those jewels and gemstones, the desperate gift of a man driven mad by his love for me. Was it love? Did he know what that word meant?

Do I?

I shut my eyes briefly to keep the tears caged away, glad that Gabriel says no more. Another word from my shepherd, whether kind or damning, and I wouldn’t have been able to keep my composure. I take a steadying breath and open my eyes slowly, ignoring the sting of more tears.

I force myself to look around this room, this lavishly-decorated chamber for Mr. Boldwood’s young bride—at the fine jewels in these drawers and the multitude of silk and cotton frocks hanging in that cedar closet, their labels all embroidered with the name he begged me to take: _Bathsheba Boldwood._

How many hours did he spend here, daydreaming of our future? Did the fever in his eyes spark hot reading that false name over and over again?

_Bathsheba Boldwood, Bathsheba Boldwood, Bathsheba Boldwood…_

_No, that’s not my name!_

This room is a morgue, its treasures all living corpses, shimmering in sunlight, chattering over a madman’s deepest hopes and desires. They whisper of my love of fine things, my vanity, my pride. They tempt me to wonder what would have happened if I’d just agreed to marry him and become a prisoner to this room, my wrists and throat adorned with pretty, silver chains.

_Bought, sold. A man’s property…_

The air turns stale and I find I can’t stay here any longer. At least not without those tears spilling over. But I don’t want to cry here. Not in this room.

I turn away from it all, my hand lightly brushing Gabriel’s knuckles as I dash away (almost as a plea?), as I can’t meet his gaze. I make my escape into the dawn-lit hall of the upstairs landing, but I’m unable to go much further. 

I didn’t sleep last night. The coroner and the magistrate were here until after midnight—inquiring, questioning, gallantly averting their eyes whenever I couldn’t keep my tears in check—and the exhaustion is catching up with me. 

With one hand sliding against the polished banister, I sink down on the topmost step of Boldwood’s grand staircase heavily, where the tears overcome me and I just sit there, letting them run down either side of my cheeks and splatter on my skirt. They aren’t the sobbing kind, but terribly silent. Silent as an autumn-chilled grave, like the one they buried Fanny Robin and her poor, stillborn child in.

I’m not alone for long. 

The hardwood floors creak under Gabriel’s careful steps. As he slowly takes a seat next to me, I don’t bother to brush those tears away. He’s seen me cry before, many times. And he knows why I cry now.

_It's all my fault. Foolish, vain, impulsive, stupid girl…_

“This isn’t your fault,” he murmurs a reply to my unspoken words, as if he’s able to look inside my head at any hour, and see my thoughts all laid bare, without any gilding. Perhaps I should be distressed that he knows me this well, or that I’ll never be able to keep secrets from him, but I’m not.

I’m nearly relieved.

“None of this would have happened if I didn’t send him that Valentine,” I mutter back, miserably. 

I can’t stop thinking about it. Four lines. It was just _four_ lines of silly poetry. 

_Rose’s red_  
_Violet’s blue_  
_Carnation’s sweet_  
_And so are you_

I wish I could go back and scratch out those four lines until the ink in my pen bleeds dry. I shake my head, with regret, “I played with his affections to appease my own vanity, just as you said.”

“I never said that,” Gabriel replies, gruff as always. But gently too. 

That night at the grinding wheel with the shears, he may not have said it all in words but his discerning, honest eyes accused me, nonetheless. He knows this, even if he’s sparing my feelings by pretending he doesn’t. 

“You said it was unworthy of me,” I remind him of that charge, at least. He needn’t worry for my sake. I can admit the truth now, my eyes unclouded save those stupid tears. My voice goes small and threadbare, “And it was.”

Gabriel is silent for a long moment and takes his time answering. He’s sparse with his words, always has been. This will never change, not even years later, when we make a habit of sitting together like this, down in the green meadows, up in the wind-swept fields, speaking quietly over little things, our hands clasped together, absently. 

“This isn’t your fault, Bathsheba,” he repeats, in a steady tone that leaves no room for further argument.

His elbows rest on his knees, his hands sliding together, as his gaze drifts away from me and down the stairwell, to the hushed, tense activity below. Boldwood’s servants are tidying up from the festivities of the night before, sweeping floors, washing dishes, shaking out rugs soaked with snowmelt. They are grim but industrious, finding solace in their work, despite the fact that their master is gone, never to return to this house.

Frank’s body has been moved but his blood still stains the snow outside, scarlet as his ruined uniform. Gabriel was standing with me when I told the coroner that I want Frank buried with Fanny and their child.

_Will that grant me absolution, Gabriel? Please say yes, even if it isn’t so._

My tears aren’t dried up yet. Soon, I’ll go home and collapse into bed. I’ll wake up with damp eyelashes. It will be years before I’m able to step foot in this house again without feeling instantly lost and held captive by a single moment in time—the cruelty in Frank’s voice as he screamed in my face, the madness in Boldwood’s eyes as he shot my husband dead in front of me. 

I resist the urge to reach out for one of Gabriel’s hands—callused, strong, work-worn—for there would be too much begging in it. I don’t deserve his comfort. Besides, he sits near enough that his knee is brushing against my skirt. 

And that’s enough for now.

Enough to remind me that Gabriel is beside me, despite it all. Within reach, as always. And cry if I must, he will allow. Without scolding me, without judgment.

_Be sad and mourn, Bathsheba. As long as you need._

I’m consoled by _nothing_ but his presence, and I think he knows it. We sit there a while longer, saying no more.


End file.
